


The Mysterious Mr Snuffles

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Sequel to: The Apple Thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 15:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17286254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: Six-year-old Sherlock Holmes is off to a new adventure, once again getting into some scrapes along the way with his inquisitive nature and bright mind. But what is a young detective to do, when he feels bored? Fortunately, their new and amiable maid Emma has something to occupy him with. Something other than helping her around the house that is.





	The Mysterious Mr Snuffles

**Author's Note:**

> Another story I wrote for my son.

The mysterious Mr Snuffles

The wind was howling in the chimney and the leaves danced through the garden in a cascade of orange and brown. Little Sherlock Holmes was tucked in, snuggled into the cosy sleeping bench that once had been Kitty's. The dour maid had left some weeks ago, too upset about what had been done to her poor Jack and no-one really knew, where they had gone.

"Uncle Aldwin, what do you think happened to Kitty and Jack?" he asked, his voice raspy from the cold he had caught the week before when both his uncle and he had been caught in the rain on their way back from the station.

"I presume they have gone to Gretna Green and have now settled somewhere, I heard Jack's family has a small croft somewhere in the Midlands," he answered absent-minded, reading through an essay from one of his older pupils.

"Who is this Gretna Green?"

"Not who, Sherlock, what. It is a village just across the border to Scotland. When people want to marry hurriedly that is where they can go to do so."

"Who would want to marry Kitty?!" the little rascal exclaimed, thinking about the stout whining girl he was quite happy to be rid of.

"Jack, obviously." his uncle replied with a knowing grin on his face.

"Peter told me, he is going to be an uncle soon – just like you. Can I become an uncle, too?" the boy's little face was eager. 

He loved his uncle as dearly as if he were his father and when he was grown up, he wanted to be just like the unfathomable man sitting at the kitchen table, with the papers spread out in front of him and the steaming pot of tea, that during the cold months was ever present somewhere in the house, providing the much-loved beverage throughout the day.

His pipe in one hand and a pencil in the other Aldwin Holmes stopped in his task to look at his charge, his eyes sparkling with amusement and kindness. The family resemblance was uncanny and there was little doubt, that when grown up, Sherlock would be the spitting image of the young school teacher. Most people who encountered the two together for the first time had little doubt that they were father and son, close in looks and in temper. 

"I dare say, one day, you might be, my boy. But you will have to wait, until your brother is grown up."

"What has Mycroft to do with it?"

"Everything," was the dry answer.

"And if Mycroft does not decide to be an uncle?" the child seemed sad at the thought. "How will I ever be one?"

Putting down the pencil and leaning back in his chair, Aldwin eyed the boy, seemingly trying to decide on something. Then, scratching the ash out of his pipe with his pipe tool (1) and stuffing fresh tobacco in, he took a deep breath, the unlit pipe and a match in either hand:

"Well, neither you nor your brother can decide whether either of you will be an uncle or not – but one day, you might want to be a father and no matter what Mycroft will think about it, as soon as your baby is born into this world, he will be an uncle and there will be nothing he can do about it. And if Mycroft decides to have children, the same applies to you."

Sherlock was confused. What could the man mean with when a baby is born? He had asked Kitty once and she had been adamant that little children were delivered by a stork. He thought back to Mrs Brown and her new arrival and how annoyed he had been to have missed that blasted bird once more. And suddenly the laughing Mycroft came to mind when he had remarked on it last time his brother was home from school.

"Uncle Aldwin, how are babies born?"

"Sherlock, you have been there, when the sheep had their lambs have you not?"

"Yes, and when Scarecrow had her kittens. They just came out of her." he glanced over to the curled up tabby cat, that had made herself comfortable on the crate they kept the coal supply for the kitchen in. 

"The same way babies come out of their mother. Remember Mrs Brown's round stomach? That was the child growing inside of her."

"But how did it get there?" 

Had he not realised it before, now the uncle knew there was no way out. His six-year-old nephew was bored and curious and this always being a recipe for mischief, this time he had managed to choose exactly the one subject Aldwin would have liked to postpone for as long as possible. Sighing he at last lit his pipe, pondered for a moment and then explained enough to quench the boy's interest.

"Does that mean I would have to kiss a girl?!" a scandalised Sherlock asked. 

"The answer would be yes."

"Urgh!" the boy shuddered and the man knew that for now the subject was closed.

Sitting up, Sherlock put his elbows on the windowsill and stared out into the darkening late October afternoon. But as the window only overlooked their own garden, there was nothing to capture his interest.

"You know what, Sherlock, if you are that bored, you could peel some potatoes for our dinner tonight. How about fried potatoes? And some eggs?" 

"Sounds good..." the boy trailed off. It was the one thing he missed since Kitty had gone – her food. She had been a very gifted cook. If not much besides.

"I do believe a new maid is in order, don't you?" his uncle asked, understanding the meaning well.

"But not another one like Kitty!"

"Kitty was good at what she did, though."

"Maybe, but I would like someone nicer. But she cannot possibly be pretty." 

Aldwin was startled. "Why not?"

"I heard Mrs Smith, Mrs Gavin and Miss Hill talk to one another the other day and they said it is a shame that you are not married, they know such a nice girl looking for a place in service – but she is too pretty to work for an unmarried man like you." the child replied with earnestness.

"So, is that what they are saying?" a frown had appeared on his handsome features. "I tell you what, my child, if I find a decent, hardworking and kind girl who wants to work for us, I don't care whether she is a scarecrow or a beauty, I will hire her regardless."

He handed his ward the bowl with the washed potatoes and a small knife and the boy began peeling. A second bowl was placed on the table, half-full with water and with a splash the first spud dipped into it, soon followed by many more. 

xxx

With his fever cured, Sherlock resumed his lessons together with the other children his uncle taught. Sitting next to Janet Brickly, as his uncle insisted upon the students being seated according to their age (2) and her and Sherlock being the youngest, he glanced over to her, from the corner of his eyes. Pretty she was, he thought, with her long golden blond braids and her rosy cheeks and lips. And she was nice and well behaved, never did she join in, in any of the wilder games and he had never seen her clothes soiled, let alone torn.

He doubted, that a girl like Janet would let him do something as ghastly as kiss her. Not that he actually wanted to. But if he had to, to achieve his goal of one day being like his uncle, he would, grudgingly. Though perhaps rather a girl that was less boring than her, the future Casanova mused. Lunch break came and perhaps it was wise to show, he could be neat and well behaved, too, just in case. 

"Do you want me to clean the blackboard again?" Sherlock thus asked his uncle. Aldwin looked up from his book, looking at his nephew with a smile.

"Yes, that would be nice, Sherlock. Then I can go and make us some sandwiches. - But, Sherlock, properly this time." 

The boy gave a sheepish look, knowing that last time he had taken care of cleaning the blackboard, it had been done in such a haste, that it had to be cleaned again, by his disgruntled uncle.

He walked over to the small zinc bucket and dipped in the sponge when his eyes fell upon a piece of soap next to the wash bowl (3). This time, he would get it clean properly!

Rubbing the wet sponge against the piece of soap, the little imp began wiping. Over and over again, he wet the implement and over and over again, he rubbed soap onto the soft sponge and after about ten minutes, he was mightily impressed by how clean the board was. Not a bit of chalk was left on it. Dropping the sponge into the bucket with the now foaming water, he hastened home for his lunch.

"I cleaned the blackboard really well, this time, Uncle Aldwin, I think you will be quite impressed!" he gasped proudly.

"Good! And I have good news, too. From tomorrow on, we have a new maid."

The man held up a letter, handing it to his eager nephew. It did not bode well, that it was written by Mrs Nichols, their landlady, who had supplied them with Kitty as well.

Dear Mr Holmes, the letter said,  
I am in the happy position to recommend yet another maid to you, despite your lack of controlling the first one and her now having run off. You must be aware, that it will reflect badly on you as well as me, should you not be able to properly advise this girl as one mistake might be put down to inexperience, but twice would be considered carelessness.   
The girl I have in mind has been in service for some years and will know her place. Emma Stone is her name and I have arranged for her to come and start with you tomorrow.  
Kind regards  
E. Nichols

It bothered the little rascal greatly, that neither he nor his uncle had any say in the matter. They, of course, did need a maid, but somehow Sherlock had hoped, that his uncle with his impartial judgement and good reason would choose the one, that would most suit their household. Looking into the resigned face of his guardian, it was clear, that his uncle's thoughts were along the same line.

"So, I dare say, we will have another Kitty after all." he grinned, shrugging his shoulders and pushing the prepared sandwich across the table. 

Blowing into his trumpet, Aldwin Holmes marked the end of the break and as the next lesson would be mathematics, he began writing down the assignments for his pupils. Or rather he tried. As much as forced the chalk against the board and as much as he wet it with his tongue,  
nothing would make the numbers appear on the black surface. Amused, some of the children watched, as their teacher gave up in exasperation, resorting to reading down the tasks. Washing his chalky white hands in the washbowl, the man's eyes fell upon the water bucket with the frothing surface. Counting two and two together he turned around to look at little Sherlock, who sat, engulfed in thought, quickly solving his additions. No, no sneaky grin there. It either had not been him, or he was unaware of what he had done. 

"Sherlock, you have not coincidentally used the soap to clean the board?" the uncle hence asked.

"Yes, I have, I wanted to have it really clean, as you told me to." was the innocent answer. 

Running his fingers through his unruly hair, the man wondered what was to be done, but found that the only thing that could be done was to wash away the soap with as much water as possible. An interesting idea crossed his mind.

"Matthew, your father has, if I remember it correctly a bucket pump (4) in his workshop?" - The boy's father was the local blacksmith.

"Yes, Mr Holmes, he has. Has bought it, when a heated horseshoe fell down and ignited the hey, they had fed the beast with (5) because it was quite a nervous animal."

"I presume that is why your father dropped it in the first place. Could you go and get it, please?"

"What, now?" 

"Yes, now." 

The ten-year-old boy could hardly believe his good fortune as he dashed out of the door to get the pump. It was no secret, that Matthew Rodgers was not very partial to mathematics. The other children had stopped in their work also, but instead of telling them off, their teacher grinned, telling all of them to push every bit of furniture as far back from the blackboard as was possible, while sending Sherlock for their new scrubber.

"Today, I will explain to you the physics of a water pump." Aldwin Holmes announced to his surprised class. "And to do so, I will demonstrate it with the bucket pump, Matt is picking up right now. All of you will be allowed to have a go and try it for themselves."

"And what's the scrubber for?" his out of breath nephew asked, having made it back first as they only lived across the street.

"To get the soap off the blackboard so I will be able to write on it again..." his uncle smirked at a blushing Sherlock, while the rest of the class began laughing.

Quickly the lesson turned into a trial of strength with the boys, seeing who could built up more pressure and aim further, the water splattering off the unadorned brick wall and forming puddles on the plain, stone tiled floor, where it was mopped off again by the one person who had before had the pleasure of working the pump. While most girls were equally enjoying this lesson as the boys did, only Janet looked slightly mortified by the chaos that had invaded the schoolroom.

The whole lesson, quite well explained actually, lasted not more than half an hour and so, laughing and in an exceptionally good mood, the class left for the day, more than an hour before they normally would have. They knew they were lucky to have such a teacher as Mr Holmes and some of the older girls had lost their heart to the tall and good-looking man. 

Scrubbing the blackboard Aldwin Holmes, wise enough to have taken off his coat and rolling up his shirt sleeves, had eventually gotten sufficiently drenched, despite the long handled scrubber, but the soap had been washed off and he could make use of the board again.

"Now there is only one thing left to do..." Aldwin mused, looking wickedly at his nephew, who had waited for him in the doorway and with a quick movement, little Sherlock Holmes was on the receiving end of a prank, being likewise drenched by his uncle. 

"Got you!" the man shouted, while the little boy screeched with laughter. 

xxx

About a week later, Sherlock was just on his way back from the little post office that doubled as a shop, where he had gotten some tobacco for his uncle when he ran into Janet Brickly. 

"Hello, Janet," he greeted, surprised she actually approached him.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," she answered, blushing slightly as if she were embarrassed. And then, out of the blue, she stepped towards him and gave him a peck on the mouth. The little tyke was so flabbergasted that the tobacco pouch landed on the ground and split open. Carefully pushing her aside he managed to stammer: "What was that for and was it necessary?"

"Oh, that was for the nice flower, you put on my desk the other day." 

What flower? Sherlock's brain could not recall such an incident. And had she really just kissed him? Wiping his cheek with the back of his hand he still did not know what to say.

"But..." he tried.

"You don't need to say anything, it is all right. I like you, too," she beamed.

"But I did not give you any flowers," he insisted, and then it dawned on him. 

On his way to school the previous day, he had seen a really interesting beetle sitting in one of the late climbing roses that grew around a trellis across the garden gate and he had taken out his pen knife to cut it off, so he could examine the pretty green creature more closely in school, where he knew his uncle kept a magnifying glass. But as it happened, Uncle Aldwin had called him to his desk and told him to distribute the reading books and he had just flung the rose onto his table, where it must have slid across to her side. Later he had forgotten about it, till now. Darn!

"Oh, but I know you did, I put it into my hymnal so I can keep it forever," she stepped forward and the boy hoped, that she would not kiss him again. 

"It was an accident," he stammered, bending down to pick up the tobacco, staring at the mess before his feet and crying out: "Oh no!" 

While he had uncomfortable shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the pouch had tilted and the fastening had become undone. 

"What is it, dear?" the girl asked compassionately.

"I am not your dear!" Sherlock almost yelled. He had enough of girls already. - And then another, extremely disturbing thought crossed his mind. She had just kissed him, hadn't she? What if...?

Picking up the tobacco and trying to rescue as much of it, as he could, he turned around on his heel and ran back home.

"Dear me, what has gotten into you?" Emma asked as he slammed down the pouch on the kitchen table.

"Nothing!" he answered, hurrying out of the back door and grabbing the small axe began splitting some wood to kindle the fires. 

"Sherlock?" his uncle had come after him. "What is the matter?" 

"Janet is having my baby and I don't even like her." the boy wailed. "I know it is scandalous, and I have dishonoured her – and you."

Dumbfounded his guardian stared at him, before breaking out in a hearty laugh. With a smack, Sherlock rammed the axe into the wooden chump and stared at him angrily.

"Well, she tricked me into it!" he announced, which did not exactly help with the man's composure. By now tears were streaming down his face.

"Sherlock, am I to understand that..."

"Yes, she made love to me!" now the child almost cried. He was vexed and ashamed and at a loss as to what to do. Bursting out with the whole story – apart from the fallen down tobacco pouch – he leaned into his uncle for comfort. 

"I think I might have explained certain things in a way, that might be easy to misunderstand," Aldwin finally said, petting the little one's head. "It is not kissing alone and not making love with fine words and silly presents, that make the babies. And aside from that you, as well as Janet, are far too young, to have children, yet."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

It was later in the evening, Sherlock had already been tucked into bed when he heard his uncle next door, cough and then hurry through the house in what seemed almost a frenzy. Dazed the boy got up and worriedly opened the door to glance out into the hallway. It was not long that he needed to wait for the man's return.

"Are you all right, Uncle Aldwin?" he asked with concern, staring wide-eyed at the man in his grey woollen dressing gown.

"Yes, yes, I am fine, but what kind of tobacco did you get me? It is absolutely horrible!" the uncle queried, a jar of strawberry jam in one and a spoon in his other hand.

"Why are you eating jam?" 

"To get that disgusting taste out of my mouth. And I am still waiting for an answer. Did Mr Perry try to persuade you again to that special blend of his? And why did you bring so much of it anyway?"

The boy looked at him wide-eyed, as he took another mouth full of the jam, seemingly enjoying the sweet taste.

"I have bought six ounces, as you have told me to." Sherlock Holmes stared sheepishly at his uncle's feet. "I am sorry, Uncle Aldwin, but the pouch fell down and I saw that some of the tobacco had spilt and I picked it up, I accidentally might have..." he trailed off.

"Might have what, accidentally?"

"I did not really pay attention, because of Janet and – and I might have picked up some of the horse dung as well that was lying about..."

"I thought I knew the aroma from somewhere...." Aldwin replied dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching suspiciously. "Well, I will finish the jam and hope it covers this horrible taste and then I'll go to bed."

"Are you not angry with me?" his little nephew asked, uncertain what to do now.

"No. I would have been confused as well, and would have mistaken dried horse manure for tobacco (6) if I was kissed by a pretty girl out of the blue," he answered with a hint of irony, but laughing now, his eyes twinkling. 

xxx

Next morning, Sherlock got up and dressed and went to get the milk, like almost every morning. By the time he had returned, Emma had stoked the fire in the stove and the water kettle was whistling.

"Ah, good morning, Sherlock," she greeted him, with a friendly smile on her plain but good-humoured face.

"Good morning, Emma." 

He was still amazed  
at the agility of her, insisting on wearing a hooped skirt (7). Kitty had always refrained from it, for practical reasons and seeing the woman whirl around the house with her silly contraption made him actually agree with their former maid, even though he liked this one a great deal better. Because even though she had already fallen victim to one of his mishaps she had not held it against him for long and with his apology to her, all had been forgiven and forgotten.

"Sherlock, could you prepare some tinder for me later? I will have to take care of the laundry on Monday and as tomorrow is Sunday, I think today would be appropriate to stock up on it."

"Of course I can." and he was quite proud to know that that was the truth. In his nimble ways he had practised the use of the smallest axe in the house for several months, being guided by his uncle at first, and now was quite adept at chopping pieces of wood into thin sticks that were just perfect to kindle their fires.

So as soon as Sherlock had finished his breakfast he went outside, he had little else to do anyway. It took him a while to fill up the crate, as it had been almost empty. Storing it under the overhanging roof of the garden shed, he went back indoors, not quite knowing what to do next, boredom already creeping up on him. To his surprise though, he spotted an old and cracked saucer with some watery milk sitting next to the kitchen door.

"I am all done!" he announced, quite hungry again and it was lucky that Emma was just about finished with her preparations for tomorrows tea cake, so he could tuck into the remnants of dough in the shabby old porcelain bowl.

"Thank you," she answered, handing him the bowl and wooden spoon, recognising the expectant look on the child's face.

"Is Scarecrow not allowed into the kitchen any more?" the boy asked, looking around as he licked his fingers, having managed to get the sticky substance pretty much over all of his fingers and face. It was delicious though.

"What gives you that idea?" the maid had continued in her daily tasks and had begun sweeping the kitchen and now looked bewildered.

"Because of the mouse in the teapot the other day?" A few days ago, his tabby had brought him a mouse, still living and as his uncle had told him to not scare Emma in her very first week working for them, he had – much like the incident with the frogs – slipped it quickly into the next pot he could find. In this instance the empty and cleaned teapot. - The culprit should have known it to be a recipe for disaster, remembering the last time he had hidden something in a pot. Poor Emma in her fright had almost dropped their teapot, but pure luck had it, that it only had chipped a bit at the base and was otherwise unbroken.

"I know that was not on purpose, Sherlock, never mind the mouse, of course, your cat can still come into the house."

"Why have you put her milk outside then?" was the confused reply.

"Oh, that is not for Scarecrow, that is for a little surprise I had the other night." he looked at her curiously and laughing she sat down on her sleeping bench, put an arm around the child and explained: "I woke up two nights ago to a weird sound of grunting and coughing and sneezing – or so it sounded and I have to admit, I was scared quite a bit."

"Who was it?"

"It was Mr Snuffles." she answered, with a smile, "he seemed to look for something to fill his little grumbling stomach with and I felt sorry for him and gave him a bowl of watered-down milk and a bit of the stewed beef we had for dinner. He liked it so much, that he now visits me every night."

"But what will uncle say, if he finds out?" 

"Oh, he knows. He had heard Mr Snuffles as well."

"And he did not do anything?"

"No, but we thought that perhaps you would like to go outside and track down my Mr Snuffles, and find out all about him?" she raised her eyebrows, knowing she had caught his attention. "Your uncle told me that one day you would like to be a detective. - One can never start to practice too soon."

"Yes, I would like that, but what do you want me to do, when I have found him?"

"I'll leave that to you. I am sure you will do the right thing." giving the little boy a motherly hug, Emma got up from the bench again to resume her work, while little Sherlock Holmes put his cardigan back on, donned his scarf and cap and hurried outside.

Carefully inspecting the cracked saucer and looking around him, he became aware of a weird looking black piece of scat a little bit away from it, where the stone plastered yard met the lawn. That surely could not have anything to do with Mr Snuffles, could it?

But it was the only clue he had so far. Taking two dry leaves, he pushed the poo onto one with the aid of the other and brought it over to his little chump. Flinging aside the axe, Sherlock bent down to take a closer look. He was certain, that it was neither from a rabbit nor a cat and it also appeared too small to have come from a fox or dog. But what other animals were there? Was there perhaps an animal that rummaged around at night, making funny noises? He was not sure.

Returning to the house, the detective in training again went to where the little makeshift bowl stood. Thinking about it, by now, Sherlock was almost certain, that Mr Snuffles must be an animal. A small animal and one that was nocturnal. Walking in a straight line to where he had found the scat, he carried on walking till he reached the small brook at the far end of their garden. There had not even been the slightest hint of a clue there. So, Mr Snuffles did not seem to walk in straight lines. Not really surprising, neither did he.

Walking back in a wide zig-zag pattern had not given him any more success though. Sherlock Holmes, the detective needed to think of something else. So, where could Mr Snuffles be hiding? That was a plan at last!

But where would a small animal be hiding? In a hole in the ground, perhaps, or in a hollowed tree trunk? Neither Sherlock could find anywhere in the garden. The compost heap in the far corner of their property? He walked around it carefully, and indeed, Mr Snuffles must have been here, for he found some more of the unusual looking poo. But the creature itself was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there, where the compost had been dug up by his uncle the other day, there were tiny footprints, like little claws and they wandered off in the direction of the house. There Sherlock had to remind himself again, that the creature did not walk in straight lines. 

He had been spending almost the whole morning in the garden, searching it, when he heard his uncle call him in for lunch.

"I heard you are looking for Mr Snuffles?" the man asked with a smile on his face.

"Yes, but I had no luck so far." 

"But I am sure, you will find him, Sherlock."

Emma's meals were almost as good as Kitty's, but since she was much more pleasant to have around, the meals still seemed so much nicer. And today, she had made a cottage pie (8), one of the Holmes' favourites.

"You know what?" Emma asked as she cleared the table. "Why don't you put a small amount of pie aside, so you can give it to the young man you are searching for?"

'All right', Sherlock thought to himself, as he once more set out to search for the mysterious Mr Snuffles, 'what small creature is nocturnal, eats meat and drinks watered down milk, makes funny coughing noises and has little claws…- and is harmless, since Emma does not fear it?' He did not know. Mycroft's words came to mind, that reading was a good way to acquire knowledge. But this insight did not help him in any way, now.

After another futile hour of searching for the mysterious creature, Sherlock gave up for the day. This game was beginning to lose its appeal for the time being. He could always continue his search tomorrow, or rather on Monday. As tomorrow there would first be the church to attend and after that Sunday school and after that, he could read a bit, perhaps, what else was there to do on a Sunday anyway.

In his boredom, he took the little four-wheeled handcart his uncle used to transport things around in and set out to the steep hill on the other side of the Gifford-Farm. He rounded the house and stepped onto the street, dodging another encounter with Janet, who looked as if she was on her way to Mrs Mallory, for the girls knitting classes, with her neat little work basket and her eager face. From school he knew, that knitting was her favourite subject and that reading and writing were secondary in her opinion. 

Sherlock stopped shortly at the smithy, where Matt's father once again was fitting a horse with a new shoe. It was a huge bulky animal, seeming the bigger since the child was so small. But even Mr Rodgers, a tall and burly man appeared small against the flank of the large black and white Shire Horse with its massive hooves. It was a particularly calm animal though and Sherlock knew it to belong to Peter's and Kitty's father, Mr Summers, the owner of Kerkhill- Farm, where he went to fetch his milk every morning. Waving at his friend, who calmly held the bridle, Sherlock Holmes carried on.

Having underestimated the weight of the cart when pulled uphill, it took the little prankster a little more than twenty minutes to climb to the summit of the not overly high but steep mount. Halfway through, all of a sudden the cart went a lot easier and when turning around, the little tyke looked into the cheekily grinning face of Alfie Taylor, his best friend, a year older than himself, but with an equally curious and impish disposition.

"What are you up to, Sherlock?" he asked, a little out of breath as he had been running most of the way to catch up with his friend.

"I have long wanted to try out, how fast this thing would get if I drove it down this hill," was the reply, which was met with much enthusiasm. "I mean I have seen Mr Gifford's cart once roll downhill, but as no one steered it, it landed in a shrub eventually and stopped about halfway. But imagine, going all the way down..." his eyes shone with anticipation.

Alfie's grin widened, reaching from almost ear to ear, revealing the lack of both of his upper front incisors. 

When they reached the top, both boys, placed the cart on the one spot it would not start moving immediately, but when they had climbed in, the cart would not just move, they would need to make it start somehow. 

Climbing out again, Sherlock cut off two fairly sturdy looking branches from a hazel bush, handed one to his partner in crime and scrambled back into his uncle's handcart, taking the place at the front, as it was his idea after all. 

"Now, we use the sticks as paddles, like in a boat," he told the bewildered looking Alfie and using their combined strength, the vehicle began to move, slowly at first, but quickly gaining momentum.

It was about halfway when Sherlock realised that he had forgotten one major point… - How to stop this thing, once at the bottom. There was a sharp right turn that led back into the village, while a driveway to the left led to the farm. 

He heard Alfie saying something, but the wind was howling in his ears and his eyes were fixed on the approaching fence. Should he go left or right? Would he be able to steer such a curve at such a speed? Could they jump out, just in case?

Quickly deciding, that the turn that led onto Mr Gifford's farmyard, was less formidable, he steered it to the left, the cart tilted dangerously, the left-hand set of wheels in the air, while the other was almost scraping across the gravelly path. 

They took the turn in a stride, but getting the cart to go straight again, was much more problematic now. While the thing had lost some of its speed due to the tilt, the boys had not foreseen, that a slower cart, was harder to steer, as it had lost already lots of its momentum. 

Neither Sherlock nor Alfie were certain if it was particularly lucky or particularly unlucky that at this particular point there was a steep bank underneath which was the farm's pig wallow. 

The cart toppled over the edge, and while Alfie ended up wedged underneath the cart, to which he had clung for dear life, Sherlock, having been at the front, had actually fallen out and landed face down in the stinky mud, right among a bewildered looking group of piglets.

In their relief, both boys started laughing, but only when Sherlock wanted to move, did he realised, that he had twisted his ankle and would not be able to walk, let alone climb the steep bank. Alfie, on the other hand, was stuck inside the cart which, when standing on its wheels, was easy enough to move, but was too heavy for the two boys to turn around. Perhaps it was not so funny after all.

As it was, the task to get some help would fall on him, since Alfie, though uninjured, was irrevocably trapped. After ten minutes of trying to free his friend, the two little rascals had given up and wincing in pain, Sherlock had scrambled to his feet, and pulled himself up the bank with some effort. No-one was around, that was unlucky.

"Ouch!" he gasped, as his injured foot made contact with the ground, but he bit his lip and began limping towards the village. Deep in thought as to how to explain the situation to his uncle, he almost bumped into Janet once again, who was on her way to her parent's little villa a little outside of the village, halfway between the Gifford-Farm and the last cottage of the village itself. 

The girl looked at him aghast, wrinkled her nose and with an exclamation of disgust scurried away from him. At least one problem, that had solved itself, he thought, a wry smirk on his mud-encrusted face. What was not solved though, was the problem of how to admit to Uncle Aldwin, that despite the fact, that the man had told him not to, he still had put his plan, into motion quite literally and raced their handcart downhill and had thus trapped his friend underneath it. 

His trail of thought was cut short when he almost bumped into the man. His uncle, as it was beginning to get dark, had obviously been looking for him and he did not look pleased. With a raised eyebrow and a stern, questioning expression he stood there, arms folded across his chest and obviously waited for an explanation.

The contrite culprit explained the situation and Aldwin insisted that Sherlock had to accompany him, and help him. Every step hurt, and by the time they had reached the steep slope, his ankle had swollen considerably. 

Taking off his coat, Aldwin Holmes jumped down and into the mud himself, and with a quick movement had freed culprit number two.

Alfie, who had a mighty fear of his teacher, bowed crisply, muttered his thanks and then legged it. 

"He could have actually helped us!" a disgruntled Aldwin growled, lifting the heavy cart and pushing it up the bank, with the result that he now looked as dirty as his nephew, safe for his face. 

"Emma will not be pleased," he added, when he had made it up the slope, looking down on himself and at the little imp, a suspicious twitch pulling at the corners of his mouth as he burst out laughing.

"I hope it was worth all the pain, Sherlock..." he teased, picking up the child and placing it in the cart, before taking the drawbar, so they could walk home "Well, I think you are sufficiently punished, by your having to walk back here with me, now you should get off your foot."

xxx

When little Sherlock returned from school on Monday, Emma was busy with their laundry as she had said. Stirring the large cauldron (9), she looked a bit like a witch stirring her potion – but a very nice one, with red apple cheeks and large brown eyes. 

Deciding that he was more of a hindrance than a help, he strayed outside again, deciding that now was a good time to resume his search for Mr Snuffles. There were a few more traces now, but still, the young detective did not succeed in any way to solve the mystery. 

Sherlock began wandering around the garden once again, peeping into every nook and cranny that met his eyes, much slower today though, due to his still bothering injury. Again the compost heap was inspected, and the heaps of leaves throughout the garden, but once again without avail. 

Annoyed he was about to climb his favourite tree to sit up in the branches, thinking about his little problem, when he spotted a small hole in the door of the garden shed. The lower part of one of the planks that made up said door, was somehow shorter than the others and a small animal could slip through there. Sherlock had never really observed it before. But now he opened the latch and peeked inside. Nothing. At least not at first glance. But then his observant eyes spotted it. In one of the corners, there was a heap of dried grass, rags and string, that had somehow piled up there and snuggled up almost hidden behind a watering can and a spade, was a tiny hedgehog. 

"I see you have found him," an impressed voice sounded from behind. In his eagerness, Sherlock had not even realised, that his uncle had been following him. Now he looked at his guardian with a broad smile on his handsome little face, his grey eyes shining.

"Yes, I have found him. But, shhhhhh, he is sleeping," the young detective put his index to his mouth and carefully stepped outside. "Now, I know who Emma's Mr Snuffles is." he smiled happily.

"Then go and tell her."

 

A.N.:

(1) A pipe tool is a, implement that helps to clean and stuff the pipe, consisting mainly of three parts, a scraper, a pick and a tamper. The scraper serves for scraping out the ashes out of the pipe bowl, the pick, to clean the draught hole, where some ash might accumulate as well. The tamper is for compressing the fresh tobacco in the pipe bowl, so the tobacco can smoulder slowly.

(2) In general, village schools consisted of only one class, with children of various age. In the 1860ies, education was not yet compulsory in England, but some local nobles did set up schools. In this case, the school's patroness is Mrs Nichols, who is also the owner of the property Aldwin Holmes has rented. Anyway, to manage more easily in teaching many different grades in one go, usually, those children making up one grade, sat together, with the younger ones in front and the older ones at the back. Also, as with the holidays, the start of the term could vary from school to school and there was, of course, no set curriculum as to what to learn when and if at all.

(3) In the 1860 running water was a rare and water was usually got from wells and pumps. To be able to wash one's hands, wash bowls would be used. They could either come with a pitcher that held the water, which in turn was poured into the bowl, when needed, or they could be simple water-filled basins, that were emptied out frequently.

(4) A bucket pump is a basically a bucket with a pumping mechanism built into it, that is operated by hand. While the bucked obviously serves as a reservoir, the pump follows the same simple system of any hand pump. With a hose and nozzle, it can build quite a bit of pressure and has a decent reach of several meters, depending on the person operating the mechanism. A bucket pump is quite effective to quench smaller fires and is actually still part of the equipment of the fire brigade to this day.

(5) Horseshoes are usually fitted when the iron is still hot, but not smouldering any more. But at any rate, sometimes the iron needed altering and with a nervous horse in close vicinity, it could happen, that a red-hot iron fell to the floor. Normally there would not be any straw or hay laying around in a smithy, for obvious reasons, but in this case, what was supposed to calm the animal must have in the end scared it even more.

(6) Funnily enough, dried horse manure and some cuts of pipe tobacco don't look dissimilar. So, considering  
the circumstances, it was a legit mistake.

(7) A hooped skirt or crinoline was all the rage in the 1860ies, meaning basically a wide cut skirt draped over a cage of metal hoops that got wider towards the ground, creating a bell shape. They were quite impractical, especially for a maid who had to work around the house, stoke the fires and so forth. Many accidents happen, so let's see if perhaps Sherlock can convince Emma to get rid of that thing…

(8) Cottage pie is a traditional English dish made from minced meat and vegetables, all put into a casserole dish, topped with mashed potatoes and baked in the oven.

(9) Particularly white laundry was literally boiled to get the stains out. This could be achieved either by heating water on the stove in big pots, which then would be poured into either zinc or wooden wash tubs – or, alternatively, there were wash tubs that could be fired underneath, which was a bit more practical. In this case, we are talking about the latter implement. Especially in the country, they could double as a large cooking pot for making preserves, as this, for lack of artificial refrigeration, was the only way to keep things over a long period of time. The common process of getting the laundry clean, was to stir it with a paddle and if stains remained, they were worked out with a washboard, meaning a wooden frame with a metal insert, that looks slightly like an oversized grater, but is not serrated, of course, but has a surface much like water ripples on a beach.


End file.
